REVRW From "Letter to American Poetsjj Ruxandra Cesereanu A panther is writing you, American poets, men and women with knives and trees in your heart, red teeth and violet tongues telling poems about disembowelled solitude, smoky days and Saturnian nights, leaves and peppered harbours. You are there, in the fountain of ashes, I am here, in the highway of my brain, trying to enter your heads through a warm surface, playing the guitar and singing with my tobacco voice, taking you near the moon in a game of hide and seek. You have amnesia, I have amnesia, we are both old flying through membranes and disasters, while purple angels play trumpets and the Apocalypse arrives sweet as a forgotten breeze. I am pushing you up against the wall of lullabies, shadowing sorrow, entering the yellow tunnel. Hah, I am pungent and alone, you are in the city traffic like no Gods delivering. I would have liked to feel your touch, my young-old skin is disappearing in these noisy days, but I am undamaged and unafraid of yesterdays coming like beheaded queens. You are there and I, here, cyanotic gates are climbing on my bones, I am writing about your lives and dark sides without knowing them, only because from thousands of miles away I smell rains and dreams as they are not. The lizard of my poem gets you from within, you are there and I, here, but all of us tumbled in the big washing machine of the world, with sunflowers for hearts and landscapes of eyes as electric skies dancing lost rock and roll. Hah, I would have liked to bend over America like a whirling dervish, trembling bridges with my temples, crossing stars with my hair, breaking birds with my walls, hot waves, hot waves in brains and the ribs where an angel has fallen like a magician's hat. You are there and I, here, half human beings, half animals and another half objects of prey, talking, scratching, drinking, remembering, lying, thinking, searching, not finding, knowing, flying, living and dying in the honour of no God. A panther is writing you, American poets, my fears are yellow wings water, this is why I tell you I'm about to change in the alchemic sunlight, buying at the supermarket all the things I need for my transformation: little iron balls, a parrot, gentle darkness, jaws of void, one scarface, wind veins, chlorine. I am inside an interval of my life where there is no shame, only a swollen repentance for nothing and the abandoned windows of night where I offer myself as a feverish skin. You are there and I, here, sitting in the bedroom of our lives with looking-glasses for bones. A black-swan gaze in our eyes and the sound of death as a necklace—this is what I feel. But there is also the hard transparency of strangers, the white nails of several ghosts in the very morning while the silence slowly carries its corpse. You are there and I, here, wasping and narrowing myself, blinding despair, (but what is blind despair today?) vanishing space and time in a cup of coffee. HOW AND WHY I WROTE A POEM ENTITLED I never thought I would someday write a poem directly in English. It is true I have written an entire volume of short stories directly in Spanish (which is my favourite language for languishing in a special zone, a liquid one, in my brain and my mouth), but I never thought I would do the same thing in English because I have never conceived the English language as a specific medium for my poetry. My ars poética focuses on delirium and deliria, and I have always thought that the English language is more appropriate for reality, for objects, for exact things, and not for nightmares, delirium tremens, and the like. I think that poets must be "beasts" to themselves and to others (this means being authentic and violent so as to thrill and hook the mind, soul, and body of the reader, not letting readers linger in a dolce-far-niente mood, forcing them to experience catharsis). The English language seemed...